Maternal Influence
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock has a long chat with Molly's mum. Sherlolly


It was a gray morning in London. There was a distinct chill in the air, and the sun was just now making its way over the horizon, cresting the tall buildings of the center of the city, even though it was almost eight o'clock. Sherlock Holmes had been on a case for days, and had spent the entire night wrapping it up in the company of Scotland Yard. He was now heading home when, exhausted, he decided that, Molly Hooper's flat being closer, and the possibility of finding a cab at this hour practically nil, he would pay his pathologist a visit and share a cup of coffee with her. She hardly ever objected to his unannounced visits, and he was in the mood to socialize a bit, having just concluded the rather difficult case. He never missed a chance to try to impress her with his intellect and deducing skills. In addition, his stomach was growling a bit. With any luck, Molly would both feed his ego, and satisfy his hunger.

Arriving at the flat, Sherlock put his head to the door to listen for sounds of activity. It was still relatively early on a Sunday morning, and his pathologist may, in fact, still be sleeping. Hearing nothing, he picked the lock easily and entered the quiet flat. He decided that he would start the coffee. The smell would surely rouse her, and perhaps she would be even more amenable to fixing him a hot breakfast. He shrugged himself out of his coat, and started puttering about in the kitchen, knowing from past observation just where Molly kept everything.

"So nice of you to start the coffee, Mr. Holmes. I've been so looking forward to having a chat with you, and chatting over a nice cuppa will make it even friendlier."

Sherlock froze in place. He did not recognize the voice coming from almost directly behind him, a soft woman's voice with a distinct Irish lilt. Janine had had the same tone, but this voice contained none of the honeyed warmth of Janine. This voice indicated curiosity, but with a hint of a steely undertone. He turned to face her.

"You're not Molly," he blinked twice as he stared down at the woman standing before him a nightgown and robe.

The woman snickered, slightly amused. "I see your amazing powers of observation and deduction have not been overstated. My name is Margaret Hooper, Molly's mum."

Of course he knew that Molly had a mum. Everybody has, or at least used to have, a mum. Even he had one, which meant that Mycroft, too, had one, however unlikely that seemed. "Pleased to meet you," Sherlock lied. He was not at all pleased to meet her. Least of all to meet her when he had been caught breaking into her daughter's home. "Molly not up yet, then?"

"Molly's up and gone. She was on call, you know. By this time she's probably up to her elbows in the entrails of some unfortunate, loving every minute of it. I hope so. I hope it's not some wee child. You know how that depresses her!"

Yes, he did know how that affected her. He had come to believe that he knew everything about Dr. Molly Hooper. Except, evidently, that her mother was in London for the weekend. How inconvenient to have missed that! The detective was studying the woman as she studied him. Short, like her daughter. But there the resemblance seemed to end. Margaret Hooper was about sixty years old, had red hair touched generously with white and gray, and green eyes. And she was looking at him like she hadn't quite decided whether she was angry, curious, or bemused.

"Sit down, then. You look like you're about ready to fall over, anyway. Haven't eaten lately, have you? Molly tells me about your foolish practices when you're working one of your cases. Probably showed up here looking for a meal. I'll bet my Molly always provides one, too! Too obliging by half, my girl is."

Sherlock just continued to look down at the small woman, trying to process this new information and adjust to her use of the possessive adjective. In his mind, the pathologist was always "his" Molly. And the idea of another person claiming ownership was slightly disconcerting, although he didn't exactly why. Perhaps he would have to adjust his thinking about his...er...her...um...their Molly.

"Sit!" the woman barked, and Sherlock sat like a well-trained pet.

Margaret Hooper started to busy herself with preparing a meal, but before she actually started cooking, she placed a cup of coffee on the table in front of Sherlock. "Drink up. I want you awake for this conversation, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock Holmes had faced James Moriarty, a glowing hellhound, a murderous cabby, and a naked dominatrix, among others, but this woman intimidated him more. Perhaps because he knew the direction the conversation would take, and it was a question he had been avoiding answering even to himself. And Margaret Hooper was, indeed, a clever woman. Seeing how tense he had become, she allowed him to baste in his own tension, until his discomfort was at the maximum.

"So, Mr. Holmes, do you often break into my daughter's home?" Margaret asked the question in an almost conversational tone, with no hint of animosity or ill will. But the plate full of breakfast was dropped somewhat indelicately in front of him, and her eyes flashed a bit of a threat.

"Only occasionally, Mrs. Hooper, when the need arises. I was nearby, and in need of company, and sustenance. I certainly did not mean to impose on you, madam. My apologies."

"But you certainly did mean to impose on my daughter, eh, Mr. Holmes?"

"Perhaps Molly doesn't consider it an imposition," he replied, a trace of his old arrogance returning to his voice.

"A bit full of yourself, aren't you, Mr. Holmes? Although I suppose the women give you plenty of reason to be! Your pictures in the newspapers don't do you justice, do they? You'd need color to capture those eyes. I'm glad you ditched that ridiculous hat, though. Makes you look a bit of a ponce, doesn't it?" She shoved the plate of food closer to him. "Eat! you could use a bit of meat on those bones, young man!"

As he was really and truly ravenous, and breakfast smelled delicious, Sherlock Holmes dug in as Mrs. Hooper continued. "I really can see what she sees in you, though. All those brains wrapped up in that package. Hard to resist, I imagine. Now, tell me, how can you resist my Molly? She lovely! The image of her father, god rest his soul. He was kind, gentle, loyal…"

"Sounds as if you're speaking about a basset hound…"

Mrs. Hooper rolled up the newspaper which was lying on the table and swatted the detective on the head. "I won't have you speaking of my husband in that manner. Or my daughter. As far as I am concerned, the only son of a bitch in this room is you!"

"Clever retort, Mrs. Hooper. I can see where Molly gets her intellect. I just hope she has not inherited your violent tendencies!"

Margaret went to refill his coffee cup, smiling as she did so. "You know, of course, with your towering intellect and massive powers of observation and deduction, that my girl has been completely besotted with you for years. What do you intend to do about that?" She placed the cup in front of him.

This was the question Sherlock had been expecting since he had first seen the older woman standing in front of him, and he wasn't sure how to answer it. Had it been asked years, or even months before, he would have answered that he intended to do nothing, having decided ages ago that relationships, or marriage, were certainly not for him. But lately he was coming to the conclusion that he could not imagine his life without one Molly Hooper as a part of it. He was still coming to terms with what part that was to be, however. And he was completely terrified of broaching the subject. What is he was rejected? There were certainly enough reasons for such a rejection. He was no prize package, after all, but an opinionated, arrogant, egotistical, selfish git with a gift for hurting those people who got close to him, no matter how unintentional. Molly deserved much better, he deserved much less. The universe had a wicked sense of humor when it paired them up for this dance!

"Must I intend to do something about it, Mrs. Hooper?"

"I'm afraid you must, son. None of us is getting any younger. I don't want my Molly to waste her life mooning after a man who cares naught for her. But I don't for one minute believe that you do. So, at the risk of appearing crude, I have to tell you to shite or get off the pot, as they say!"

"My mother has told me to 'fish or cut bait!' " the detective admitted with a slight smirk.

"Sounds like excellent advice, if I may say so. A woman after my own heart." Margaret Hooper then looked him in the eyes, studying him, before she spoke again, a bit more quietly, "It's time to make up your mind, young man."

"I am afraid, Mrs. Hooper, that you do not grasp the nature of my relationship with…"

"I grasp it just fine, Mr. Holmes. My Molly loves you desperately, and you need her, evidently just as desperately. But if you choose to leave…"

"Bloody hell, woman, I have no intention of leaving Molly." Sherlock shouted at the woman sitting opposite him. "I would like to believe that she will always love me, and I know that I will always need her! But what happens when she finally realizes that I am nowhere near good enough for her? What happens when she leaves me?"

"Of course you're not good enough! I'm her mother, so of course I believe that. The problem is that you believe it, too. And it's not our decision. It's hers. And she believes you're just perfect, as most people in love do. And don't raise your voice to me again, young man. Surely your mother taught you manners!"

"As a matter of fact, she did. I'm sorry for raising my voice, Mrs. Hooper." Sherlock's shoulders sagged as he made his apology, something he never did. "I very seldom get carried away by emotion, but it seems that you Hooper woman tend to bring that out in me. I'm not very comfortable with expressing sentiment of any kind."

Sherlock wasn't really sure why he continued to speak, but it suddenly become very important to him that this woman, who obviously cared for her daughter very much, knew that he had never had any intention of hurting her, that he only wanted her happiness.

"Do you really believe that I could make her happy, Mrs. Hooper. Don't you think she needs someone more...normal? More conventional? More…"

"Someone like Tom?" the woman gave a disdainful sniff.

"Meat dagger, indeed…" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Dullard…"

"His hair was quite nice, though!" Even as he spoke, the detective added to himself, _not as good as mine, though!_

"Wonderful! I would have had stupid grandchildren with great hair! Your hair is much nicer. No wonder Molly wants to run her fingers through it."

"Does she? I often wondered. Sometimes I think I catch her looking…"

"Just like she sometimes thinks she catches you gazing at…"

"Never mind, Mrs. Hooper!" Sherlock Holmes was almost blushing. He did not need to be made aware that Molly had, in fact, noticed him noticing her. "Point taken. And I must admit that my resolve to lead a solitary life has somewhat diminished lately. Perhaps at some point I'll reconsider my position…"

"No time like the present, Mr. Holmes. You need to loosen up a bit. Man up, as they say! Take out your mobile." Sherlock started to speak, but she shushed him immediately. So he gave up, and took the phone from his trouser pocket. "Now think, Sherlock. Think of one thing you have always wanted to tell my daughter, but can't bring yourself to do it when she's standing in front of you? Be brave! She can't see you, and you can't see her!"

"What do you want me to type? This is your idea, after all."

"Just something nice, something you've always wanted to say, but couldn't bring yourself to do so. It will make her day! It will be a nice beginning. Compliment her hair! Ask her to dinner!"

But Sherlock was already typing, thinking to himself, _in for a penny, in for a pound_. After he hit the send button, he turned his mobile around for Mrs. Hooper to read the message.

I LOVE YOU. ALWAYS HAVE. PROBABLY ALWAYS WILL. - SHERLOCK

"Too much?" the detective asked, as the older woman read his words.

"I, perhaps, would have lead with something a little more restrained. But, to each his own." Margaret Hooper smiled encouragingly. A return text come through almost immediately.

ARE YOU AT MY FLAT? DID MY MOTHER MAKE YOU SAY THAT? - MOLLY

SHE SUGGESTED I COMPLIMENT YOUR HAIR. I DECIDED TO UP THE ANTE - SHERLOCK

I'M SO SORRY. MUM CAN BE A BIT OVERBEARING - MOLLY

NO NEED TO APOLOGIZE, AS YOU HAVE MET MY MOTHER. AND I DO LOVE YOU - SHERLOCK

P. ALSO HAVE LOVELY HAIR! - SHERLOCK

Sherlock was now beginning to crash, as he did after every case. He had gone for days without either eating or sleeping. Now that he had had a generous breakfast, his body was telling him it was time to rest. But he was stuck at Molly's flat with her overly excited mother. He would prefer to be fully awake and functional when the newly declared object to his affections arrived home from the hospital, and could only manage this if he was allowed to sleep. Immediately! He came up with a plan, and quickly texted his Molly.

AS YOU ARE AT WORK AND I AM ABOUT TO COLLAPSE I HAVE ENTRUSTED OUR FUTURE TO OUR RESPECTIVE MATERNAL UNITS. PRAYER WOULD NOT BE INAPPROPRIATE. - SHERLOCK

He then handed his mobile to Molly's mum, saying "Mrs. Hooper, you will find my mother's number in my directory. I'm sure you will get along famously, as you remind me of her, somewhat. Please feel free to make whatever plans regarding my future, and your daughter's, that you feel necessary. I insist, however, that Molly and I retain naming rights on the children! I need only point out to you that my name is Sherlock and my brother is Mycroft for you to see how important it is that my mother has no say in the matter! I'm going to sleep now in Molly's room. Please have her wake me when she arrives me, as I find myself surprisingly eager to express certain, uh, sentiments in person."

Sherlock actually kissed to the older woman on the forehead, and staggered off to the bedroom to fall into the bed fully clothed. He was snoring within seconds, and Margaret Hooper shut the door and left him in peace. After all, she had things to do!

A few hours later, Molly received a bewildering text from Mycroft Holmes.

THE 17TH OF NEXT MONTH IS PERFECT. MUMMY IS ECSTATIC. CONGRATULATIONS! - MYCROFT

Molly was baffled for the briefest of moments, before it dawned on her what two very determined mothers could accomplish given the resources of the British government at their disposal. But she would definitely have to assert some authority over the location of the honeymoon. Molly was definitely hoping to avoid some tropical paradise, and opt instead for a cold dark location conducive to long nights cuddling to conserve body heat.


End file.
